Equations: Dialectic Form (2021)

#11
In this favorite game, and when youth is involved, women often hold the
cards. Heather has decided that we will have two nights, no more. There
is something in me that wants and needs her too much. She is too
touched, too moved. It’s safer just to flush the thing. I don’t particularly
realize this, as we sit at the Cherry Street Tavern. All I know is an anxious
feeling that I’m going on a trip and Heather is giving me a warm goodbye.
It is a trip involving my art and my sense is that I’m going to get killed.
Heather, she knows privately, is about to kill me too. She puts in her
diaphragm and when I come, it is an exquisite lunge into some variant of
heaven. Her intake of breath tells me that she is getting my stream. She
might even be frightened that the diaphragm is punctured. Amidst all the
peace and its benignity is the sense that things are getting out of hand.
This is unsanctioned intercourse, out of mutual dependence; Heather feels
this too much. So that, when I get back from my ten days in New
England (where I have, in fact, been killed), Heather is nowhere to be
found. That part of her that took my streams is loathe to take any more,
too happy, too at peace. I learn that Heather represents that great portion
of humanity that wants to be in pain. Ecstasy is a dead end street; it is too
unreliable, too jumpy. Heather now goes for guys that give her the
manner and form of the pain she wants, and not too much of the nice
stuff.
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